


On the ground

by nik_nimmi



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, But he finds himself, In the end, M/M, References to Depression, and taeyong leaves to lead a normal life, be kind lmao., but they were trainees together, i wrote this in one sitting, ten debuts solo in this, ten suffers through a lot here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-13
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-21 12:20:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30021690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nik_nimmi/pseuds/nik_nimmi
Summary: The loneliness shrunk down. It shrunk down, and crawled away, just as it had, all those years ago, to make space. To make space, for the warmth that was Taeyong, and his love, and the first step of many Ten would take for himself. To make space for the warmth that his fans would pour in, when he posted a picture of their hands linked together, albeit the backlash they inevitably faced.The loneliness crawled away, and in the distance, as it watched him grow and grow and feel and feel, Ten could almost see it smile.(inspired by ‘On the Ground’ by Rosé)
Relationships: Lee Taeyong/Chittaphon Leechaiyapornkul | Ten
Comments: 7
Kudos: 42





	On the ground

**Author's Note:**

> TW:// References to depression. Intrusive thoughts are mentioned here, and references to depressive behaviour. Please read with caution and care if you do.

Ten splayed himself on the practice room floor, the mirrors and wall providing no comfort, the air-conditioner running and running and yet not reaching his burning body. His limbs screamed, his heart ached, and his mind was filled with so much hate for himself he found it hard to breathe. He still tried though; breath after breath after breath until his skin calmed, his sweat dried and his lungs began to function like those of a normal person’s.

The door opened, he squeezed his eyes close. _Please,_ he thought, _not now._

Ten was waiting—for the inevitable screams, the scolding, the insults hurled at him in words he could understand and not, for resting, for relaxing, for not doing enough, for not _being_ enough.

Instead, he felt long and bony fingers card through his hair. Instead, Ten opened his eyes, to see a familiar mop of black hair, the eye bags that haunted the other’s face comforting—for Ten was no stranger to the suffering, to the expectations that weighed the boy above him down. The weight of it shifted, between them, as though they were scales, meant to balance each other out.

 _You have to be the best,_ they told both of them, separately, and away from prying ears and eyes, _you have to be better than him._

Yet, Ten could not find it in himself, to resent him. As the boy leaned down, he felt some of the ache numb itself away, for the loneliness had been temporarily chased away, in favour of making space for the warmth he brought instead. Ten could not find himself to be envious, to be angry, because there was no other that understood him more perfectly, than the boy who now gazed into his eyes.

He had beautiful eyes, Ten though, a beautiful face, carved to perfection. His nose, his lips, his jaw; everything was an embodiment of the word perfection itself. Ten raised his own hand up, let his fingertips touch his cheeks, no longer inhabited by the healthy fat they used to home.

“You okay?” he whispered, in words so simple to understand, yet just as complicated to answer to. _I don’t know_ , he wanted to say, _I don’t think I am, but I have to be. I think I am, but then I don’t feel like it. I long for home, and long for rest, yet achieving any of the two puts me ay unease, as though I have paused, stopped, and let my life rot away—_

“Trying to be,” he whispered back. Ten’s fingertips grazed up his face, the boy’s eyes fluttering shut, as he traced his features away, his heartbeat calming, and some of the twisted thoughts from his mind slipping. He traced and traced, until he landed on the scar.

“Ugly, isn’t it?”

But it was not. He was so beautiful, Ten thought, and his supposed ‘flaw’ made him even more so. He was so beautiful, yet they tried to tear him down, to build him stronger, to build him harder and hone him into a blade. Ten was all softness, curves, and elegance, and _he_ was all angles, sharp and snarling, wild.

“No,” he said, sitting up, as the boy’s gaze fell to the floor. He hated them all; those who covered it up, those who spoke and spoke and spoke, as though they were not teenagers but made of metal, to be hit and damaged again and again to show their potentials. His heart ached, again, for a different reason. The silence bloomed and bloomed between them, and Ten could see the beginnings of thorns, that had grown on the other. The thorns meant to keep away, to tempt yet to strike fear. “No,” he said again, “there is nothing ugly about you. Not on the out, and not in.”

Taeyong cracked a smile, and that was all Ten needed, to know the red petals had not yet withered away. _A rose_ , so many had nicknamed, and Ten could not agree more.

\--

He left.

And that is all Ten could keep in mind, let it repeat over and over as he performed in front of their critical eyes, the very same that had driven him away. Taeyong had left, had left despite making it, because it had torn him apart from the inside, because they had demanded so much, that he had started to break off pieces of himself, to satisfy them, and with time, himself.

 _His health is at risk,_ the manager had broken to the, _he didn’t want to tell any of you. But it’s been a while, and anymore, then he might just never dance again._

And that is something he would not wish upon anyone. The claps were muted, the colours dimmed, and stripped away. Ten could only focus on his breathing, erratic and hard, painful even, as he awaited their feedback. _They drove him away,_ is all Ten could think, as he recalled the humiliation they forced him through, the criticisms they had plunged into his skull over and over until it had become embedded as truth.

“Stay back,” one of them told him, and he felt shivers rain across his body. His hands were freezing—shaking even—but he had no one to offer them to anymore. He had no one to remind him anymore, to break away from his mind, to break away from the pain his heart shot up through his body.

Ten had felt fear before, but never the way he had then. Ten had felt fear, had lived through it, yet nothing could compare to the few minutes that passed between the judges leaving and their manager coming in. Nothing. As his heart thundered and thundered, when his gaze fell upon the all the apologetic faces, as they left him alone, one by one, emptying the room.

Ten stood, in the empty room, the emptiness hollowing him on the inside. _Loneliness._

“Congratulations,” they had said, voice empty, or maybe it was just Ten, who had lost any ability to detect emotion. _He left._

“Congratulation,” the managers said.

But Ten was not feeling worthy of a congrats, he was not feeling anything at all.

He had left. And now Ten would stand, under the lights, instead of him. And now Ten would give it all, for the cheers and the world’s love, instead of him.

He had left Ten, in an empty room, to stand once again. To stand now, on an empty stage.

“You’re debuting solo.”

\--

And so Ten stood.

He stood, and he delivered, and he gave up his home, his time with his family, with friends, his childhood and a chance at normalcy, for all of it. He had laid himself raw, poured every inch of him in every song, in every dance, in every performance.

Time was always ticking. Ten debuted and performed and performed again, and rested and recorded and recorded and practiced and practiced and learned. Goodness did he _learn_.

It was no easier, when he debuted, and Ten felt the world’s expectations rest on his shoulder, and no one to share it with him. He fed himself medicine after medicine, to keep himself healthy, to keep his body running. Ten exercised, dieted, groomed, and did everything he could, to let himself last longer, to make himself last longer.

But there was so remedy for loneliness, and standing alone on stage had only intensified that. They trickled out, one by one, the ones that had trained with him. They trickled out, and left him alone, to find a chance somewhere else, or to give up altogether. _He left,_ and it was always at the back of his mind, swimming about as he cried, swimming about when he sobbed.

It was always there, and he could do nothing about it, for he did not want to risk any of them, to not risk what he had given his life to, and not risk what Taeyong had taken a chance at. Word travelled fast, he had realized, when his friend started to get malicious threats and have his privacy breached, after paparazzi caught them together. He could have friends, but he had to shield them away. He could talk to other celebrities, but not in front of the cameras, not in front of the staff, not in front of the fans, or the audience. He could do whatever he like, if he only conformed to all the restrictions.

Ten missed home so much at times it cracked him apart. He missed the heat, missed the freedom, missed his family and friends and pets and life. Ten missed it all so much that sometimes he would not move for hours, only staring at pictures and going through albums, not wanting to call too often lest he worried them.

\--

And then, he got his big break.

One hit song, and then another, and somehow, Ten found himself performing on stages bigger than life, stages so wide and spacious and only made for him to occupy. The thrill kept him alive, the voices, the cheers, the stories. The letters, the fan calls, the brightness that sparkled in his fans’ eyes as they laid their gazes upon him. If Ten could do that, then he would continue to do it, and do it over and over again until he died.

 _Depression_ , his doctor said, and his manager had never taken him back again. It didn’t matter; as long as he had the music, and the cheers. It did not matter at all, for he had never felt more alive in his life, singing and dancing and even getting chances to work with people he had admired for so _so_ long. Ten pushed himself up each morning to feel again, for the performances were the only times he ever did. Ten did not want to be a walking shell of emptiness anymore, he did not want to rot away and be forgotten.

So Ten worked. He worked and worked until one day he fainted on the stage and his company issued a statement. And he worked after that, he worked so much that three years slipped through his fingers, through his music, and Ten was now done with two worldwide tours and inching closer to a chance at writing his own songs, composing his own.

Fame was power, in his industry, and Ten made sure to listen to his seniors’ advice, made connections, saved money, and honed his charms and reputation to command almost anybody to anything. Ten got what he wanted; his design coming to life on stages, in album designs, his ideas into his songs and lyrics.

Ten ran and ran without looking back because he was terrified of what would happen. Because he was terrified that he would look away and stumble and fall down, down and down. And Ten had once been there, on the ground, on the floor of the practice rooms with no certainty of anything, and he had lost everything. He had lost Taeyong, his friends, his ability to feel.

So Ten would not stop. He would not look back. Because the ground terrified him, and Ten had already felt the cold fear; he was not going to feel it twice.

\--

“For Lee Yongheum,” he said, and Ten felt his head spin.

It was a simple bouquet. Rested in the man’s arms, before it could rest on the table. Ten felt his world tilt, his feet stumble, and he breathed in the scent of them; fresh and dewy. _Roses,_ and he felt a pang so strong it hurt to breathe, to even sit, to _exist._

The concert was over, and he had left his emotions behind, at the venue, as the car had driven him away to his hotel. But as Ten clutched his chest, he could not help but think the routine had been changed, and he had remained uninformed.

For Ten felt genuine _ache_ , something that was better than anything. _Roses,_ and he touched the petals, their softness bleeding red on his fingertips. Water dripped, and Ten wondered if they cried for him, if they cried because they had never seen a man so lonely, who wept over a mere bouquet of flowers.

But they did not know.

They did not know, what Ten knew, of the man that had picked them out. They did not know him, in the way Ten had known him, in the way Ten had seen and experienced him. They did not know Taeyong, in the way Ten had, and that was what cracked the dam around his heart, the wall built solid inside of him.

Ten cried, more than he thought he did when he won his first award, more than the time his fans had sang back to him, more than the time he had read letters from his family. Ten cried, and cried, and cried, because for the first time, his loneliness did not know what to do. Whether to stay and keep him company, for no other feeling had come to visit him in who knows how long, or leave and make space, for the warmth the roses had delivered to him.

\--

“You shine so much,” Taeyong told him, his lips red with wine, “I go breathless whenever I see you perform.”

 _But not as much as you did_ , Ten wanted to say back, but held back. Taeyong had left, had left and become a producer under a new name. He had brushed his hands off the limelight, but he could not extract himself for his passion for music. _It had taken a lot of time,_ he had said, as he guided Ten to their table, _but I finally decided what to do. I’m not quitting from my office, but I did start selling quite a bit recently._

Two years.

It had been two years since he had gotten the first bouquet. The first of many. They had greeted him after every stage, after every performance, waiting to see him. And he posted each of them on his instagram, to let him know, to let the world know, that Taeyong had not gone, that he resided—albeit as a secret—in his heart, and in his life.

Where Ten had always wanted him.

They talked. A lot. And Ten felt… _something._ He wondered, if this was happiness. His heart had fluttered a lot, recently, and he’d started having the occasional spark of joy and anticipation when he’d come in the waiting rooms, to see the roses wave at him to come closer and receive them.

They talked so much, beyond the food and the alcohol and the deserts and the lights outside and inside, and they talked as they walked the cobblestoned path in Paris, as they walked under lampposts and Ten felt like he had dreamed it all.

He had not talked like this, in so long. He had no one to talk to. Ten had never disclosed himself to anybody, had stopped feeling like it long ago. He liked his hollowness, for it was familiar, and emotions only made him cry now. Ten was broken, but he still pretended not to be, and with Taeyong, he didn’t have to pretend at all.

It had taken two years, for Taeyong to show himself, and Ten would let the opportunity waste so easily.

\--

“Welcome,” and she smiled at him, gesturing for the seat opposite her.

Ten sat, and felt his skin crawl. He wanted to recede into himself and out of existence, as the white walls bared nothing to him except bleakness. Maybe that was it. Maybe they were so bare, to bear what the stories of others, to bear the pains and sufferings of humans like him.

People who were broken.

“And why do you think so, Ten?”

_Because I cannot feel. Because I cannot feel until I see him, I cannot feel until I see the roses, I cannot feel until I hear them and see my fans, because I cannot live if I do not perform, because the hollowness is better than the anger, the anger that is cold and unforgiving as it makes me hate mys—_

“I don’t know.” He settled on.

“And it is okay no to,” she told him. “People are not broken, Ten. People become what situations force them to, and sometimes what their minds force them to. Try to be as honest with me as you can, okay? I am not here to judge you.”

“You’re here to help me.”

“No,” she corrected, “ _you_ will help yourself. And I will only lend a helping hand. I am not a repair-person, and you are not a broken toy. You are a person, who has gone through something, and I will help you fight through it.”

_You are not a broken toy._

Maybe, Ten should listen to her. Maybe, this therapy thing would not be the horrid and shameful thing his old manger had told him to be. Maybe, his new one would be right.

\--

It took a long time.

And Ten still struggled, but he felt more, slowly. He felt many things. He felt like waking up and getting out of bed sometimes, even if his schedules were empty. Ten felt his anger dim, when he made mistakes, felt that he need to reprimand himself if he said something negative about his own skills.

Ten no longer felt the world collapse on him whole. Ten no longer felt the need to prove himself to the point he burned himself out. He had managed to reach the ten year mark, and he still sold out show after show. Maybe, he was not as hopeless of a case he had thought himself to be.

His new manager was very kind. He gave him compliments, and gave him words of encouragement. It had been a long time, since someone from the company had talked to him so kindly. The staffs were nice, but to Ten it appeared as an obligation, not from a place of sincerity.

(He was trying to not think of it that way, though. Maybe they did truly like him.)

He had not seen much of Taeyong recently, but he was no longer too worried. Taeyong still sent him roses, and that was enough to anchor him in place in Ten’s life, was enough to chase away some of the ache that he still felt, deep in the night.

But.

It was not perfect. And Ten knew that. It was not perfect to still have insomnia so severe that some nights he would only ever sleep if he had taken a pill, to have days where he wanted to cut himself from the rest of the world, feeling undeserving of tainting it by his footsteps, the breath he exhaled, the ones he stole as he inhaled. Ten knew it was not perfect, but the lady was so kind, and she had told him that he did not have to be perfect, that no one had to be, and that nothing had to be.

All that mattered was it was _better,_ and _that_ , was the biggest thing anyone could achieve.

So Ten tried to believe her. Because very few had ever been truly so kind to him, without knowing anything about him, and the wrung-taut teenager within him still craved for that kindness, that sense of selflessness the word brought.

Ten held on, to little kindnesses, and he hoped, that one day, they would cling on to him instead, and he would no longer be in an empty room, filled with empty people and empty words.

\--

“But why?”

“You cannot,” they said, “it is inappropriate.”

They said no more. The words burned in his mind, they burned on his skin. They had taken his heart and crushed it in their hands, they had marked him with hot iron, as the words now embedded within him.

_It is inappropriate._

His manager looked at him in apology, but Ten could not think of him, think for him, in that moment. He hated them so much, he thought, as they shut the door close behind them, he hated them, so much so he wished to crumble their world into pieces.

_But they made you._

And they did. They made him. They made him Ten. Ten who shined on stage. Ten who had been given an opportunity to step on one because of them. It always hanged over his head, and sometimes coiled itself around his neck, suffocating him from the eternal torment of resentment and gratitude.

_It is inappropriate._

But Ten did not think so.

Because Taeyong was merely a close friend. Because Taeyong had not once told him he minded being seen with him. Because Ten had only ever bared his soul to one person, had only ever shared his burdens with one person. Ten had only ever laughed so freely, had only ever spent his youthful days and now his late years with one person.

And that person was Lee Taeyong.

_It is inappropriate._

But it was not.

Taeyong was not.

None of it was.

\--

“Do not risk your hard work for me,” Taeyong told him, eyes blazing, “do what _you_ want, Ten. But know the consequences of both. People like you, they don’t have the privilege of having it all.”

_People like him._

And who was he, exactly? The question came to him, mid-concert. He had left Taeyong, had fought with him and hurled words that the other had no problem hurling back, both high on anger. _Who am I?_

He did not know.

And it was terrifying. He sang, he sang and sang and sang louder and filled it with everything he possessed in his being because this was the only time he was given access to all his emotions, to all his skills and charisma. This was the only time Ten felt alive, and it had not changed, though maybe, ‘only’ had started to become a stretch.

And so, the days morph. Into night, and into days, and into night, and into days. Flights, hotels, venues, interviews, and so much cheering it was starting deafen him. _They love me_ , Ten thought, _but they don’t know me._

And he could not stop thinking.

He could not stop thinking, how he had not received his roses.

He could not stop thinking, how he had not responded to Taeyong’s last messages.

He could not stop thinking, how his fans had started asking, where the mystery bouquet giver had gone.

Ten could not stop thinking.

 _You do not know me._ And he sang and danced until his body burned. Until he had to be carried off stage for the moment he stepped behind the curtains he could not hold himself up. They cheered so loudly for him, they learnt from and _for_ him, and he inspired them as they inspired him but he didn’t know _why_ the thought was so devastating.

That they did not know him. They did not _hear_ him, when he sang of pain and sorrow, because they did not _know_ him.

Because Ten did not know himself.

He did not know who he was.

\--

“I love him.” he said.

“I know,” his manager replied. He did not scream at Ten. He did not look disappointed.

He just looked sad.

“What happened?” he asked.

“You deserve to be happy,” his manager said, and Ten cried. 

\--

_I love him, and he had loved me, and I had gone and let him go._

\--

A heart could carry so much pain.

It could carry so much grief, and heartbreak, and loneliness, and still beat and beat tirelessly to keep the person it inhabited alive.

Ten felt the walls cave him.

Why had he not noticed?

Was he so busy running? That he had missed it all?

How did he not notice, the way Taeyong had treated him?

Like glass, like the most precious of people, unlike how he had done to so many others.

But Taeyong was so far.

He had gone away, and back to his normal life.

He produced, but for only some, and only rarely.

Ten was still so scared of the ground. It had taken away everything from him, and he had done everything to climb far far away from it. He had all the fame he needed, he had the freedom to now visit his family, to have pets, to keep a private apartment with security strong enough against paparazzi. He could call over anyone anytime, and no one would know.

But the ground had taken him away again.

The ground had snatched Taeyong from him, once again.

\--

He spent his life. He spent his _life_ , spent it working and working and running so hard he could barely keep up with himself.

But as Ten looked down at the crowd, performing the last song of the night, he wondered, why. He fulfilled his dreams. He achieved his passion. But Ten no longer had an identity of his own, had given away so many of his years to depression, had given away so much of it living in fear.

_I love him._

So Ten ran, for the last time.

He ran, as though he was on the verge of death, as though the only way to stay alive was to run. The cameras followed his movements, as he exited the award ceremony, flashing and flashing and so blinding and intrusive, and he had to _leave._

Because Ten loved him.

Because Ten had long gotten, what he had wanted, and had lost so much, not realizing what he needed. Ten shoved past them all, climbed into his car and drove like a madman. The roads were empty, blocked off by police cars to ensure all their safety, and maybe, he was doing the right thing.

_Do what you want, but know the consequences._

Ten did not know who he was. Ten did not know what his life would pan out to be. He ran, and he pushed, and he shoved and muttered excuses stringed one after the other until his lungs burned and heart ached, and the rose-tinted glass shattered and—

“Ten?”

He was still here.

Taeyong.

His Taeyong.

His rose.

An announcement called for another flight overhead, as Ten trudged towards him. He had not gotten too far inside, and Ten had come just in time, before he would be too far and too out of reach, in a country far far away.

“Taeyong.”

And he could see, that his words still affected the other. It was so crystal clear, that Ten wanted to laugh, at how he had been an utter fool to not notice. Taeyong bled red; the colour of love, the colour of the very roses he once used to send.

“You can’t be her—“

“-I love you.”

And he could see the pain, painting over Taeyong. In all these years, Ten had not once stopped thinking that Taeyong was beautiful. The universe was fair, in what it had gifted Taeyong with, for such a beautiful soul, deserved to be inside of him. It would not matter if he had a hundred slashes on his body, it would not matter if he had none. For Taeyong had always shone so bright, with the force of his existence alone.

“Ten,” he gasped, as though it pained him, “You _can’t—“_

 _“_ I can,” and he stepped closer, “I spent my life, running and ruining myself for things that didn’t matter, when all I ever wanted was to sing and dance, to share my story, to share stories of so many others. And I got to do it, yet I—I’m, I’m still the same Ten, who was lost, and confused, and so _so hurt.”_

 _"_ The world listened to me, but only you ever heard. I don't care if a million watch me, or a hundred, if I lose them all, or lose only some. This life is so _fickle_ , and I let so many others decide what was best for me, what was right for me, that I lost myself."

“And for once, I will be selfish,” he stepped closer to him, Taeyong’s hands dropping his bag on the ground, “I will be selfish for love, because that is one thing, that only _I_ have a say on. Because my heart, is the only thing, that can speak for what it wants. What _I truly want.”_

Taeyong kissed him, there, in midst of so many people bustling about. The sky did not fall down, the world did not crack under his feet and swallow him whole. His life had not ripped to shreds, and Taeyong was oh so warm, and close, and Ten felt so strongly that he was afraid he might die. It was overwhelming; in a good way.

The loneliness shrunk down. It shrunk down, and crawled away, just as it had, all those years ago, to make space. To make space, for the warmth that was Taeyong, and his love, and the first step of many Ten would take for _himself._ To make space for the warmth that his fans would pour in, when he posted a picture of their hands linked together, albeit the backlash they inevitably faced.

The loneliness crawled away, and in the distance, as it watched him grow and grow and feel and feel, Ten could almost see it smile.


End file.
